


and if you will, remember, and if you will, forget

by uro_boros



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Death, M/M, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:30:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uro_boros/pseuds/uro_boros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I am dead, my dearest,<br/>Sing no sad songs for me;<br/>Plant thou no roses at my head,<br/>Nor shady cypress tree:<br/>Be the green grass above me<br/>With showers and dewdrops wet;<br/>And if thou wilt, remember,<br/>And if thou wilt, forget.<br/>--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI</p>
            </blockquote>





	and if you will, remember, and if you will, forget

It's hard to watch, and he keeps saying he won't--says it to himself, because there's no one else to say it to, and sometimes when Alfred's gone from the apartment, it's Matthew's own voice that has to keep himself sane. It's not like Alfred talks much when he's home anymore. He mostly sits in front of the flickering television, watching something pointless and mind-numbing, his body slumped into the lumpy couch. Sometimes Matthew can hear him start to say something, can see the way his lips move around the sound of a word, but he always stops before he gets anything out, shaking his head.

There's no one to talk to for Alfred anymore, after all. Matthew died two months ago, leaving behind him a list of things: one (1) dirty apartment, one (1) old television with rabbit ears and fuzzy screen, three (3) drawers exactly filled with neatly folded clothes, two (2) sets of kitchen utensils, and one (1) Alfred F. Jones, barely living.

\--

Death isn't what he expects.

Mostly, he expects nothing, but some distant part of him that remembers Sunday school lessons thinks of pearly gates and St. Peter, maybe the face of the mother he never knew

Death is just death. One moment he's bleeding out on the pavement and everything's going in and out as something buzzes louder and louder, and then everything's still buzzing but feels kind of far away, and it takes a moment to realize that he's staring at himself on the street.

That's death--the panic comes later, once his body's tucked into a black bag and the cops are murmuring their condolences to a mute and pale Alfred.

Alfred curls into his spot that night and cries.

Matthew curls around him.

\--

He thinks, I'll move on once Alfred does. That's what makes the most sense--it's what the movies have taught him at least.

He's almost selfishly grateful when Alfred shows no signs of doing so.

\--

It's the first attempt that changes things. Alfred's watching television--bad daytime television, the kind they used to watch together and that Alfred always pretended not to secretly like--when he stands up, goes into the bedroom, and comes out with something wrapped up in one of Matthew's sweatshirts.

It takes Matthew until Alfred's up on the chair to realize what's happening.

And until that moment, Matthew's never been able to do anything, no matter how hard he's tried or concentrated or screamed. But there's a blinding moment of terror and the beam the rope's tied around suddenly snaps, Alfred falling to the ground with it.

He's no longer grateful after that.

\--

One attempt turns into another, this time with a gun that mystically doesn't fire when Alfred pulls the trigger. It manages not to fire six times in total until Alfred tosses it against the wall.

There's still more after that--pills that Alfred always heaves out, a gas leak that fizzles into nothing.

Each time leaves Alfred more desperate than the last, until one day he just gives up.

And while Matthew can cause guns to misfire and wood to snap, he can't fix this.

He can only watch.

\--

He tells Alfred that it'll get better. That it might not feel that way now, but it will. Things will get better and Alfred will meet someone, maybe fall in love again. He'll pack up Matthew's three drawers of folded clothes and buy a new television, one without rabbit ears. He'll remember Matthew sometimes, and it'll hurt, but it'll hurt the way a memory hurts: dully, easy to ignore.

And Matthew will watch him, and love him, and that'll hurt too, but that's okay--it's okay, he says to Alfred.

It's okay.

But Alfred never hears him.

\--

It's one of the days Alfred goes out. Last night, he had pulled out all of their photo albums and got drunk and sat there and cried. The photos are still out this morning, so Matthew looks through them and remembers.

There's a tugging at his gut two hours later, and he doesn't need to hear Alfred's voice next to his ear to know what's happened.

"I missed you," says Alfred, voice cracking on the words. "Don't cry. There's nothing to cry about now, we're together. Why are you crying?"

"I don't know," Matthew answers him honestly. And he doesn't--he's happy, he is, and maybe that's why he's crying, because he's missed this so much. But that doesn't feel right.

Arms around him, Alfred murmurs, "I heard you. I heard you and I knew what to do--you told me it was okay, so I jumped. And you were right, Matt, you're always right," as he rocks them both.

And Matthew cries harder still.


End file.
